Lost & Found
by piaffe417
Summary: How did Bobby end up in a mental hospital in Chicago? And where is Alex?
1. Lost

Author's Note/Disclaimers/Sea Stories:

Hello, fellow CI fans! Before you commence reading this little piece of fiction, I should tell you that I don't know where it came from, it just sort of appeared in my brain the other day and said, "Write me, you fool." So I did. Is it overly dramatic? Possibly. Cheesy? At times. Mine all mine for better or worse (reviews)? Indubitably. The characters, however, belong to Dick Wolf – I just brought them out to play. The sea was angry that day, my friends…

It's my first day on the ward, but so far everything seems to be going pretty well. To make sure that things stay that way, my supervisor has paired me with Carlos, a three-year veteran who knows the patients and the routine inside and out. He's completely at ease in his surroundings, laughing and joking warmly with everyone we meet, and his behavior is contagious so that I feel myself begin to truly relax as we step into the common room. It will be our job to supervise a group of patients who are enjoying the sunlit atmosphere – a welcome bright spot in their sterile surroundings.

My gaze sweeps the room, investigating its inhabitants with a curious but nonjudgmental eye. I don't know enough about the patients here or their stories to see them only for their diseases or make mental lists of their medications instead of their likes and dislikes – not yet anyway. What's more, I hope I never do. This may be a place for people who can't make it in the outside world, but they are still people, regardless. Sometimes people in this job forget that and I pray I'm never one of them. That's the reason I chose this career path, after all: to help _people_ – people like my brother, those who somehow lost their connection to the sane world outside and wound up living – and, in Evan's case, dying - in a mental jungle of their own creation. I couldn't help my brother but in this job I hope to help others like him. That's my goal, anyway. It may be too idealistic, but it's all I've got right now.

Before me in the common room, an older black man sits in the corner, muttering to himself while shaking his head slowly back and forth as though disagreeing with his own words. Nearby, a skinny blonde woman whose hair hangs limply in front of her eyes paces back and forth in front of one of the windows – five steps over, then five steps back in the same pattern every time. A twenty-something man in a Rutgers sweatshirt is huddled on the couch, tears running silently down his cheeks, though he doesn't seem agitated. I wonder if he's a college student but don't ask Carlos – I want to get a feel for the patients on my own before the facts solidify in my mind.

Carlos seems to realize this, but begins to speak anyway, his voice low and conspiratorial.

"That's Al," he points out the black man in the corner. "He's been diagnosed with schizophrenia and he talks to himself a lot, but he's usually no problem. Just know that you'll have to repeat yourself a lot when you're talking to him because he gets distracted very easily. His brother comes to see him once a week and his mother used to come until her stroke last year."

He gestures to the blonde woman. "Emily can get agitated at the drop of a hat so keep a close eye on her. Usually putting her by herself for an hour or so calms her down, though – we very rarely have to medicate her to gain control of the situation. Her parents and siblings come to see her every few weeks but she usually chases them out of the room after a few minutes."

The last sentence is in such a way that I can tell Carlos sympathizes with Emily and her family because his eyes are sad and he looks at the floor when he finishes.

"And Ethan," he's pointing to the twenty-something on the couch, "is here for extreme depression. We're trying to pull him out of it, but most of the time he sits on the couch like that. Don't ever try to take his Rutgers sweatshirt away – not even to wash it – he can't do anything without it. He was a student there until last year when he tried to commit suicide and his family brought him home to Chicago for treatment."

"Mm," is all I say, then let out an "oof" as another body comes into contact with my own from behind – hard.

I whirl and come face to face – or rather, face to chest – with a very large man whose nose is firmly imbedded in a copy of _Smithsonian Magazine_.

"Excuse me," he doesn't tear his eyes from the page and his voice is soft, but the apology seems genuine enough.

I, for one, am too shocked to do anything but take one big step to the side – out of his way – and stare after him. He moves towards the window that Emily isn't pacing in front of, his gait shuffling and demeanor implying that he's attempting to hide from everyone around him – impossible at his height. Still, if he wasn't wearing pajamas and an ID bracelet, I might have mistaken him for a doctor with his handsome features and outward air of being somewhat put together. But when he sits down in a chair by the window and looks up for a split second, I'm able to glimpse his eyes and right there I can see the reason he's here. They're dark and bright – some would say downright healthy – but the brightness is extremely sharp, like laser beams are coming from his pupils. Granted, it could be medication, but my gut tells me that the cause is internal, like he's operating on a different frequency from everyone else. The sharpness of his gaze also seems to cut those that fall into its path – a clear defense mechanism. If he doesn't let anyone in, they can't disturb the delicate balance he's reached in his head, the balance that allows his body to function every day but that keeps him from living a normal life. My brother perfected that look before the end and I remember all too well the feeling of being cut by those eyes – like being sliced with a knife.

Then the tall man is looking down at the magazine again, left hand tracing absently over the words. His eyes squint at the page while his brow furrows in thought.

Carlos doesn't seem to notice my silent stare, but goes on with his introductions. "That's Bobby. He's one of our most interesting patients – a self-admit who comes to us all the way from New York City."

"He came all the way to Chicago from New York just to admit himself to a mental hospital?" I'm sure I look as confused as I sound and try not to raise my voice and draw attention to our conversation. It's a reflex - of all the things I expected him to tell me, that wasn't one of them.

Carlos shrugs. "The most complete story I've been able to put together is that he was some sort of police detective – homicide, I think – and some case drove him over the edge. He showed up here one day about a year and a half ago, checked in, and has been going around in his own world ever since. The doctors keep working with him but it doesn't seem to be helping. Frankly, I don't think he wants help with whatever it is that makes him this way. It's more like he's hiding out here – from what I don't know. He barely speaks – basically he just lives inside his head and only comes out when he absolutely has to."

"Does anyone ever come to see him?" I want to know. "Surely someone must know more about him."

"Nope," Carlos shrugs. "Never seen anyone yet."

I don't say anything more, just continue to stare at Bobby, wondering what the real story is, the reason he's hiding here. Carlos adds, "Oh, and there's one more thing you should know about him before…"

Yet before he can finish his sentence, Emily begins to wail. She picks up a pillow from a nearby chair and throws it across the room. Instantly, bedlam reigns.

Carlos rushes to her and calls over his shoulder, "Take the others out, will you Leah?"

I do as I'm told and manage to escort Al (who's still having a conversation with himself) and Bobby into the hall. Diedre, another orderly, strides over and asks succinctly, "Emily?"

I nod. "Carlos told me to clear the room."

She says, "He's right – take Al and Bobby to their rooms and I'll help him."

"Ethan's still in there too," I add over my shoulder as I begin to escort the two men down the hall.

Al's room is the first one on the right and I send him inside with no problem, then put a guiding hand on Bobby's elbow to lead him down the hall to his own. He's still reading the magazine so I don't try to make conversation, just steer our footsteps in a straight line – not that I know what I'd say to him anyway. Besides, not being familiar with the ward, I don't know where I'm going and have to read the nameplates outside every room to see if I'm getting warm. Finally, the last door on the right reveals itself to be his with a sign that reads: "Bobby Goren."

"Here you go," I tell him, escorting him inside and watching him shuffle over to the chair by his window.

He says nothing by way of reply and I take a quick glance around the room. Like all of the other rooms, it's sparsely furnished to include only the barest necessities, yet his seems even less lived-in than the others do. In fact, without the nameplate on the door, I wouldn't have known the room was even occupied. The only personal affect in view requires me to step closer to his nightstand and lean down – which is when I realize that it's a wallet-sized photo of Bobby and a tiny woman with a heart-shaped face. It's tattered at the edges, like it's actually been in a wallet, and shows the pair standing close together at what appears to be some sort of banquet. He's wearing a tie and she's in a pantsuit with his massive arm draped across her narrow shoulders – a striking couple with comfortable grins on their faces. Yet the thing that jumps out at me despite the photo's small size is that Bobby's eyes are different. They aren't over-bright, but rather shine with a warm, content glow – a sane glow.

While I'm examining the photo, he suddenly seems to remember that I'm in the room and looks up from his magazine, perplexed at my presence. His head tilts to the left, almost like a dog who's trying to make sense of its situation. 

"I was just looking at your photo," I tell him in a friendly tone, a little guilty for being caught. "She's very pretty."

In the time it takes me to blink, he's out of the chair and standing beside me, breath raspy and quick.

"Don't you dare talk about Alex," he hisses, snatching the photo from the nightstand and clutching it to his chest. "You don't know anything about her."

"Okay," I hold my hands up before me and back up slowly, trying not to sound as shaky as I'm becoming. He's a very large man and could probably break me with one hand. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I didn't mean…"

"Alex is my business," he tilts his head to the right – a confrontational stance - and advances, nostrils flaring a bit as his anger seems to fill him up. Those too-bright eyes are like searchlights boring into me. "No one knows anything about her but me. You understand?"

"Yeah," I nod emphatically and back up again.

"She was my responsibility," he adds with a growl. His voice raises a notch and his words gather speed. "She was my responsibility and I couldn't help her and no one understands and for you to stand there and try to talk to me about her is ludicrous!"

I'm backing out the door when Carlos appears beside me and pushes me behind his protective bulk to confront Bobby on his own. I retreat easily, glad for his presence.

"Hey Bobby, what's wrong?" his voice is low, but forceful enough to stop the taller man's advance. Carlos isn't as big as Bobby, but he's built solidly on his frame and is certainly more physically capable of dealing with this situation than me.

"She's talking about Alex," Bobby looks Carlos in the eye as he did me, anger still rolling off him in waves as he points an accusatory finger in my direction. "She doesn't understand."

"None of us do," Carlos agrees with him soothingly. "Only you know about her."

"Get her out of here!" Bobby yells. His voice is loud and enraged – completely contradicting his earlier meek tones and I can very easily see him as a police officer interrogating suspects. If I'd been one, I guarantee I would have told him anything he wanted to know.

"I will," Carlos doesn't raise his voice, just pushes me gently out the door without turning around. "She's gone, okay?"

"Keep her gone," Bobby turns away and I hurry down the hall - escaping.

"Did you touch the picture?" Carlos jogs to catch up after making sure that Bobby will stay in his room and that his tantrum is over.

I shrug defensively. "All I did was look at it and ask who she was."

Carlos shakes his head and pats my shoulder apologetically. "It's my fault – I should have told you about the picture first. It's the only thing that ever seems to set him off – that picture and any mention of the name Alex."

"It's okay," I tell him, then add meekly, "Just don't let it happen again – please?"

"Deal," Carlos smiles and we head back to the common room.

Still, I can't get my mind off Bobby even after I go home that night. That Alex woman seems to be a connection to his sanity and I can't help but wonder if maybe she's the key to bringing him out of hiding. When my brother first became ill, certain things could bring him back to us – granted, only for short periods of time – and we were able to spend time with the Evan we knew. Sometimes it was an old memory told in story form, or a piece of clothing he'd once loved, or even a visit from a friend or relative he hadn't seen in a while. But as time went on, those triggers worked less and less. Bobby's been at the institution over a year – anytime now he could become so deeply locked into his own mind that he'll never come out again. Time could be crucial, so later on, I go online and do a Google search for the name "Bobby Goren" just to see what comes up. I figure if he was really a detective, there might be something about him on the web that can at least give me a place to start. I have no idea what I'm going to do if I actually manage to track down information on Bobby before he got to the hospital, but it feels wrong to stand by and do nothing. Bobby may not want help, but if there's one thing I learned from Evan and his illness, it's that sometimes the people who don't want help are the ones who need it most of all. Besides, if taking action helps someone – Alex, for instance – not have to go through what my family did with Evan, than our struggles were worth it.

What comes up on the search engine is a list of newspaper articles from New York papers – "Goren and Eames Catch East-Side Killer," "Goren Says Killer Left Evidence Trail," "Goren and Eames Break Open Year-Old Homicide Case." A quick check of one story reveals that Eames is, in fact, Alex Eames, Bobby's partner – and the pretty woman in the photo. Further scrolling reveals a headline with a different tone: "Police Detective Near Death After Being Shot by Suspect."

With a gasp, I double-click on the link and my eyes race to take in the story:

A police investigation took a near-fatal turn Monday afternoon when a suspect shot homicide detective Alexandra Eames at a factory in Queens.

Details remain sketchy, but witnesses say Detective Eames and her partner, Detective Robert Goren, were at Hurst Manufacturing late Monday morning to bring in a suspect for questioning in a recent homicide. Upon arrival, the suspect opened fire on the two officers, critically wounding Eames with a bullet to the chest.

"We didn't even know he owned a gun," said Roy Baker, 52, a longtime Hurst employee and friend of the suspect. "But the minute he saw those badges, he pulled it out of his workbench and opened fire."

Detective Eames was rushed to a nearby hospital for emergency surgery. Her partner reportedly wrestled the suspect to the ground and remanded him to police custody. Goren was uninjured in the shooting.

"Detectives Goren and Eames are two of our finest officers," said Captain James Deakins. "Yet this tragedy serves to remind us of how dangerous their job is every day."

Detective Eames remains in critical condition. Doctors say the bullet grazed her heart and will only say that her injury is life threatening. She is in a coma and it is unknown when or if she will awaken.

Detective Goren could not be reached for comment.

I finish reading the story and fall back in my chair, my mouth hanging wide open. Alex shot? I am filled with a need to know more and hastily scroll down the page looking for any other mention of Alex - an update on her condition, an obituary – _anything_ that can bring the story full-circle. Yet all I can find is an article dated two days later with the headline: "Wounded Detective Remains Critical." It's short and essentially useless:

__

Police detective Alexandra Eames lies in a coma in a city hospital today, two days after being shot in the line of duty while apprehending a suspect.

"We're all hopeful that she'll pull through," Captain James Deakins said. "She's a very strong woman and our thoughts and prayers are with her."

Detective Robert Goren, Eames' partner, could not be reached for comment. He was on the scene when the shooting occurred and apprehended the suspect. Detective Goren has not been seen since Detective Eames was put into the ICU following surgery to remove a bullet lodged near her heart.

I'm bordering on infuriated now – why can't I find a story about what happened to Eames? At this point, I can't even tell if Bobby knows what happened to her and I realize that without that crucial piece of the puzzle, I can't do anything more to help him. And then, without warning, pictures of Evan begin to swirl through my mind – Evan teasing me when we were in elementary, Evan the day he got his driver's license and the keys to Dad's old Jeep, Evan on his way to college. Those are the happy times. But the later pictures of him change in tone and color – they shift to hazy gray as I see Evan tied to a hospital bed with restraints to keep him from hurting the people trying to help him and also to keep him from hurting himself. I see him lashing out at anyone who even ventures to talk to him, saying things that are meant to cut down to the bone and do. And finally I see Evan at the end, despondent and closed off from everything around him, so deeply entrenched within himself that he stared blankly at the wall every day for a week, then hung himself from the ceiling with a bed sheet.

Quickly – reflexively – I shake my head to clear the pictures away, banishing them to the back of my consciousness once more. Bobby isn't Evan, after all. In fact, I don't even know Bobby. But I do know one thing and that is that I don't want the same thing to happen to Bobby that happened to Evan and Alex Eames is the key. Everything I've seen in the articles seems to indicate that she died of her wounds but with no obituary, there's still hope. I have to try anyway.


	2. Found

Author's Note – I hate waiting to find out the endings of stories, so here you go – free of charge I give you one all-purpose ending. Enjoy!

I call Information the next day on my lunch break, looking for a listing for an Alexandra Eames in New York City. There isn't one. I bite one fingernail down to the quick and without even thinking ask for a James Deakins. Sure enough, he exists and I get a number for him but hesitate to call it at first. He's sure to be at work, plus there's an hour time difference between Chicago and New York, but I finally call anyway and end up leaving a message that sounds weak even to my own ears.

"Hi, um, this message is for Captain Deakins. My name is, uh, Leah Banks and I'm calling from Chicago in regards to a Bobby Goren. Um, I'm trying to find out some things about him so, um, if you can give me a call later tonight my, uh, number is…"

I'm trailing off badly as I leave my home number but I think he'll be able to decipher it – which he does because he calls me as soon as I walk through the door that night.

"Hi, is this Leah Banks?" the voice on the other end of the phone is recognizable from the answering machine – forceful but straining to be polite. A police officer's voice, I think.

"Yes – Captain Deakins?" I venture.

"Yes," he rushes the word out in haste to ask me, "Did I hear that you know where Bobby Goren is?"

"Yes sir," I respond. "He's at Hillside Mental Hospital – I work there and just met him this week. I was wondering…"

"Mental hospital?" he cuts me off, then I hear him say softly to himself, "Dammit, Bobby."

"Yes sir," I repeat myself.

His voice is strained with concern but still sounds professional and smooth when he asks, "He admitted himself, I assume?"

"Yes sir," I'm beginning to feel like a broken record.

"Dammit," he repeats, more forcefully this time and he doesn't try to hide it from me.

"Sir?" I ask hesitantly, seizing the opportunity offered by his silence. "Can I ask about Detective Eames?"

"Detective Eames?" he repeats my words. "You know about Detective Eames? Has he told you about her?"

"No sir," I reply. "Actually, I read about the shooting online – I was trying to do some research on Bobby and ran across an article. That's actually how I came to call you. I tried Detective Eames first but there was no listing for her."

"No, there wouldn't be," he tells me and I feel my heart shrivel as I wait for his next words. I anticipate them – and find myself trembling slightly when they finally come.

"She moved to Philadelphia," Deakins says. "She's a detective down there now."

"She didn't die?" The sentence comes out as a big puff of air. "She's okay?"

"It was a long road back," Deakins tells me gravely. "But she's recovered for the most part."

Recovered! I try not to scream the word – and it's easy when I remember that Bobby doesn't know and has spent the last year and a half of his life dwelling in a world where she doesn't exist anymore because he hasn't let her. A world where she lives on in a tiny picture on a dresser and he blames himself for her death, I think soberly.

"Bobby doesn't know, though," he jumps onto my train of thought. "He left when she was in a coma."

"He thinks she's dead," I say, ever so softly.

"Let me give you her number," his words pick up speed and he reads it off to me twice to make sure I've got it. "Call her tonight."

"I will," I say.

"And Leah?" he adds before hanging up. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say to dead air.

What I'm going to say to Alex, I have no idea as I dial the phone. "Hey I found your crazy partner in the loony bin in Chicago and didn't want him to end up like my dead brother" seems a bit much and everything else seems just cheesy and lame. I suppose I'll find the words when she answers, then force myself to finish putting in the number before I chicken out.

"Is this Alex Eames?" I ask tentatively when a female voice comes on the line. It's the sort of voice I'm getting accustomed to very quickly, the voice of someone who doesn't trust easily – a cop. She's going to make me work hard to prove that I'm telling her the truth.

"Yes," she says curiously. "Who's this?"

"My name is Leah Banks," I tell her, "and I was given your number by Captain James Deakins from New York."

"What's this in regards to?" she wants to know. "A case?"

"Um," I falter, then take a deep breath, "I know where Bobby Goren is."

I hear a gasp, then silence.

"Detective Eames?" I venture.

"Wha-? Oh, I'm here," she is completely distracted and her voice is shaking. It sounds like she's groping around for a chair and takes a moment before she asks me cautiously, "How do you know about Bobby?"

"He lives at Hillside Mental Hospital," I reply. "I work there."

"Hillside?" she repeats the name. "Is that in New York?"

"No," I say. "Chicago."

"Chicago?" her voice raises a notch. "You expect me to believe that Bobby's in Chicago?"

"I met him yesterday," I tell her.

"And he says he's Bobby Goren?" she asks. Like I thought – she's making me prove it to her.

"He doesn't say that," I have to be honest. "But that's what his name is on our records."

A pause on the other end of the line, then: "Can you describe him to me?"

I nod, but why I'm not sure because she can't see me. "He's tall – about six four, I'd say – with dark hair and eyes."

It's a weak description and we both know it. "That could be half the country. Is there anything distinguishing about him that you can tell me?"

"When I met him, he was reading _Smithsonian Magazine_," I shrug, fearing that I'm failing.

"Does he trace the words with his left hand?" she asks quickly, sounding out of breath all of a sudden. "Specifically with the first and second fingers of his left hand?"

"Yeah," I respond, a bit perplexed by this sudden turnaround.

"Dear God," she says under her breath and I know right then that she believes me. "I need to come see him."

I give her the same information I gave Captain Deakins and it sounds like she's writing it all down. It also sounds like she's crying but she hides it pretty successfully when she comes back on the line.

"I'll, um, be there as soon as I can get a flight," she tells me just before she hangs up.

"Okay," I say weakly.

"Is he…okay?" she asks me. "I mean, are they treating him?"

I have to tell her the truth. "He won't let anyone help him."

"I should have known," she says softly. Then, stronger: "Can you tell him I'm coming?"

"Sure," I reply gently, not really looking forward to tangling with Bobby again, but vowing to take Carlos with me if I must. "I'll tell him."

"Thank you," she says, and then she's gone.

I stare at the phone in my hand for a long moment, second-guessing myself and wondering if I've done the right thing by getting involved. After all, this isn't Evan and me we're talking about, it's two perfect strangers who didn't ask for me to interfere in their lives. Bobby is hiding for a reason and just because I don't think it's a good one doesn't qualify me to go behind his back. But it's too late now – Alex is coming. Now I have to wait to see if my concerns are justified.

*

In the end, I can't tell Bobby that she's coming. He glares at me every chance he gets and I keep remembering what happened the last time I mentioned Alex to him. Besides, I don't know what I would say to him in the first place. Instead, I post myself at the admissions desk, answering the phone and keeping an eye on the door for any sign of her. It takes two days, but one afternoon I look up to watch her striding right towards me, her face creased with concern and her lips pinched tightly together with some other feeling – trepidation maybe?

"I'm here to see a patient," she says. "Bobby Goren."

"Hi Alex," I greet her. "I'm Leah, the one who called you."

"Leah," she smiles and I get a glimpse of the woman in Bobby's photo. Still, the comfortable smile I saw there doesn't quite match this one, which is more strained with politeness. "I can't thank you enough for what you did."

"Don't thank me yet," I stand up to take her to his room. "I can't promise you anything – and I couldn't get up the nerve to tell him you were coming."

"What's he like?" she puts a restraining hand on my arm and I stop walking, turning to face her. She doesn't seem upset by my not following through.

"He's hiding from the world," I shrug. "And himself, too, I guess."

She inhales slowly and I can see she's not as much surprised, but preparing herself for where we're going. I wonder if part of her didn't always expect to have to see him in a situation like this one day. She seems as though she has gone over this moment in her mind before.

"Is he medicated?" she wants to know.

"No," I shake my head. "He's just…quiet."

She isn't meeting my eyes, but rather is looking downward, her gaze focusing inside herself rather than on her surroundings.

"Are you ready?" I ask quietly.

She looks right at me and offers a small smile. "I honestly don't know."

"You two are close," I say it as an observation, not a question.

She nods. "Bobby was a brilliant detective – he made me look good." She pauses and gives another smile. "But outside of work, he was also my best friend. You know how sometimes people just click? That's us. Bobby's always been a little weird and he puts some people off when they first meet him, but not me. I trusted him right off the bat."

"Is it too personal if I ask you what happened?" I ask, sensing she may want to stall a bit anyway.

She doesn't speak right away, then answers me in a matter-of-fact tone. "We went to a factory to bring in a suspect and he opened fire on us. I took a round to the chest. That's really all I remember until I woke up in the hospital a month later. They tell me that Bobby beat the suspect until he was unconscious and that they had to pull him away or he probably would have killed him. They also said that Bobby paced the floor in the hospital all through my surgery – he wouldn't even accept a pair of scrubs to exchange for his bloody suit. Then when I got out of surgery, the doctors told him that I probably wouldn't make it through the night. Captain Deakins said Bobby walked out of the hospital after that and no one has seen him since."

"He walked out?" I breathe. "Just like that?"

She shrugs and says simply, "Bobby doesn't like to feel helpless."

I don't say anything else, just turn to lead her to Bobby's room. She stops me one more time to say, "I looked everywhere for him when I recovered, you know. I only stopped because I figured he didn't want to be found."

"I get that impression too," I say and we start down the hall. "But at the same time, I think he needs it."

We pass Carlos in the hall and he gives me a sideways look – he recognizes her from the picture and I can tell he thinks I'm on the fast track to being admitted as a patient here myself. In response, I avert my eyes and walk Alex right up to Bobby's door.

He's in his characteristic place by the window, magazine in hand, and doesn't notice us at first. Then Alex says, "Bobby?" softly – questioningly - and he turns.

His eyes take her in slowly and don't seem to focus at first. The laser beam glare wants to push the intruders away out of habit, but something holds it back. Beside me, Alex begins to visibly shake and I want to reach out to steady her but I don't because I get the feeling I have vanished. In this moment in this room, I don't exist, so I do the only thing that I can - I step back out of the way. My eyes, however, remain glued to the two people before me.

Recognition floods Bobby's slowly and his eyes grow wide like dinner plates. The magazine falls to the floor and his whole body seems to twist inward on itself, contorting until he's nearly in the fetal position. He slides from the chair as though his body has become liquid, meeting the floor as tears well in the corners of his eyes and begin to spill over. His arms come up to cover his head and I realize he's trying to hide one last time but failing miserably.

"Bobby," Alex's tone is gentle now and she advances slowly towards him, one hand outstretched.

She is still five feet away when he pushes a long-fingered hand out in front of himself, eyes downcast and not looking at her, and says, "No. Stay away."

She halts then crouches down. "Bobby, it's okay."

"No," he begins to shake his head rapidly from side to side, still refusing to see her before him. "No. You're not real. No."

"I _am_ real," her voice is even despite the fact that her body is still trembling. "I am."

She inches forward awkwardly in her crouch and he continues to shake his head no and hold out his hand, but doesn't make a move to stop her or say anything else. Then she's upon him, one of her tiny hands wrapping itself inside his massive paw and her other reaching behind his head as she pulls him gently close. Instantly he's wrapping his own arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder and letting the sobs come free, his shoulders shaking with them as Alex rocks him gently back and forth, her chin resting atop his head.

It's a very intimate moment and I turn away, fighting back a few tears myself as I think of Evan. He couldn't scale the barrier that he put up to keep the world out – the very same barrier that Alex just took down in one fell swoop – but then I didn't know how to throw him a rope either. Alex makes it look easy, though. It was as though I could see the world stop spinning out of control around him the moment she stepped into the room. She's anchoring him in place right now and that realization validates me – I made the right decision.

I turn back and see that they've pulled far enough apart to talk, though they still haven't let go and probably won't for some time. She's sitting beside him now, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, her legs outstretched while she still supports his head with her hand. Neither has stopped shaking but their gaze is steady as they meet each other's eyes for the first time in a year and a half.

"Are you really here?" he asks softly, one hand coming up to her face, the long delicate fingers tracing her forehead, nose, cheeks, lips.

"I am," she replies, clasping the wandering hand in her own again. "And I'm better now that I know where you are." A pause and then furtively: "Bobby, why did you leave? I looked everywhere for you."

"They…they told me you would die," he tells her, sounding a bit like a petulant child. His tone breaks as he continues. "There was so much blood on you… on me… your blood…" He swallows. "I couldn't save you."

"Because you know _everything_ about removing bullets?" Her tone is changing now into one that almost teases and belies a touch of exasperation, as though they've had similar conversations before. "Because you're a surgeon in addition to being Sherlock Holmes in Armani? Come on, Bobby – you're a brilliant detective but it was never your job to save me. I couldn't ask that of you."

"I couldn't save you," he repeats himself and shakes his head with frustration, gaze returning to the floor. "I should have been watching out for you – you're my partner, my responsibility. I should have protected you and instead there was blood and..."

She pulls him close once more. "If you'd protected me, he probably would have shot you and you could have died. I couldn't handle that, Bobby. I need you."

"You said something to me before they put you in the ambulance." It's amazing to watch lucidity overcome his features the more he speaks to her. It comes and goes like the tide but stays a little longer each time. "You said 'Be strong, Bobby – love you.' But I couldn't do it. The one thing you wanted me to do and I couldn't."

"So you ran away to Chicago?" she's ripping holes in his logic with practiced ease and he's letting her, almost as though this is a dance they do. Yin and yang. Give and take "You didn't feel strong enough for me so you left? You really don't get it, do you?"

"Alex, I couldn't do it," he repeats.

"We're not strong apart, Bobby," she tells him clearly, separately her words with the utmost care. "We're strong _together_ – we're better together. I needed you with me."

He tells her. "I… I couldn't even say anything when you talked to me from the gurney."

"What were you going to say?" she raises an eyebrow. The dance gathers speed.

He thinks for a moment, then gives her the first semblance of a smile I've seen outside the photograph. "Be strong, Alex – love you."

She's crying now, but she pulls it together to tell him, "Better late than never, Bobby."

They embrace again and it's a long moment before he leans back and tells her, "I'm not okay, Alex. My head – it's not right. I've tried to get outside of my thoughts, but… I'm stuck."

He leans back and points a finger at his temple, eyes imploring her to help.

"You'll be okay," she soothes, resting her forehead on his. "We'll get through this together. We always do, right?"

"I'm scared," he says.

"Me too," she agrees.

But when I turn to leave them alone, their hands are firmly clasped together and there is no doubt in my mind that they'll find their way home. I walk down the hall and, as if on cue, a picture of Evan flits into my mind's eye again, only this time it's bursting with color and I see him smiling at me. And try as I might, I can't remember him any other way.

FIN


End file.
